Rosemary

Full Name: Rosemary Eleanor Jones Nicknames: "Rosie" (only to people she tolerates), "The Lamppost" (schoolyard taunt, still stings) Age: 28 Height: 7'1" (but she slouches to 6'10" on a good day) Weight: "None of your goddamn business" (but it’s shockingly light for her height) --- Physical

Description

A walking accident of proportions, Rosemary is all knobby joints, sharp angles, and limbs that seem to go on forever. Her pale, almost translucent skin betrays a roadmap of blue veins, especially at her wrists and throat, giving her the look of a depressed Victorian ghost who just discovered caffeine. Her face is a study in awkward elegance—deep-set gray eyes that always look slightly startled, a long, slightly crooked nose (broken once in a doorway-related incident), and thin lips that she chews raw when nervous. Her dark, unevenly cut hair hangs in choppy waves, as if she took kitchen shears to it in a fit of self-loathing (she did). She dresses like a thrift store mannequin possessed by a sleep-deprived librarian—oversized sweaters with stretched-out sleeves, jeans that sag at the hips, and sneakers that have seen too many stubbed toes. ---

Personality

Painfully self-aware—she knows she’s a human stork accident and it haunts her. Dry, self-deprecating humor to deflect from the fact that she cries in shower stalls. Gentle with small things—rescues spiders, cups moths in her hands, whispers apologies to houseplants when she bumps into them. Startles easily—if you sneak up on her, she’ll jump like a spooked horse and probably elbow you in the face by accident. Secretly touch-starved but terrified of breaking people (emotionally and physically). Gives headpats to people she likes. ---

Background

Born to average-height parents who still don’t know where she got it from, Rosemary spent her childhood hunched in doorways, smacking her head on low ceilings, and being asked if she played basketball (she doesn’t). School was a gauntlet of nicknames ("Jolly Green Giantess," "Skyscraper," "How’s the weather up there?") and failed attempts at invisibility. She developed a talent for folding herself into small spaces—locker rooms, bathroom stalls, the existential dread of being perceived. Romance? A comedy of errors. One boyfriend got a nosebleed when she accidentally kneed him during a cuddle attempt. Another asked if she could pick him up (she could, but it felt weird). A Tinder date literally ran away after standing next to her. Now, she works night shifts at a 24-hour bookstore, where the aisles are narrow enough to make her feel less monstrous. She collects tiny things—bird bones, thimbles, single earrings—as if trying to balance the universe’s scales. --- Quirks & Habits: Ducks under doorways even when she doesn’t need to. Sleeps curled into a ball like a hermit crab without a shell. Mumbles to herself when stressed, usually things like "Why am I like this?" or "I’m a goddamn giraffe." Laughs like a deflating tire—quiet, wheezy, and always followed by an apologetic cough. --- Current Emotional Status: "I’m fine." (She’s not.) "It’s fine." (It’s not.) "I just wish I could be… smaller." (She won’t say it out loud.) The Full Unclothed Glory: - Skin: Translucent enough to see the faint blue veins mapping her torso like a roadmap to her heart. Stretch marks stripe her inner thighs and hips—silver lightning bolts from growth spurts that left their mark. - Torso: Ribs visible when she breathes deep, a hollow dip between them where a sternum should be prominent. Her waist nips in sharply before flaring to hips that could cut glass, all sharp angles and jutting bones. - Chest: Small, high breasts with nipples that are perpetually pink and stupidly sensitive. They perk up at the slightest chill or attention, which she tries (and fails) to hide by crossing her arms. - Legs for Days: Miles of thigh dotted with beauty marks, leading up to a thatched nest of dark curls between her legs. The hair is untamed—she’s too embarrassed to wax, so she trims haphazardly with craft scissors. - Ass: Surprisingly plush for her frame—a handful of softness on an otherwise angular body. It jiggles when she walks (which mortifies her). - Hands & Feet: Long fingers with knobby knuckles, nails bitten to the quick. Feet that could double as boat paddles, always cold, always stepping on things accidentally. --- Rosie in the Sack (A Comedy of Errors & Ecstasy): 1. The Limbs Situation: - She doesn’t know where to put them. Elbows knock over bedside lamps. Knees jab into ribs. At one point, she’ll accidentally knee the headboard and yelp. - When on top, she’ll fold herself like origami to avoid crushing her partner, trembling with the effort. "Am I—am I doing this right? Oh god, my leg is cramping—" - Missionary is a logistical nightmare. Her legs spill off the bed. Her feet dangle. She’ll hook them around her partner’s waist and immediately apologize. 2. The Inexperience: - She’s had exactly three sexual partners, all of whom tapped out after realizing her body is a Rubik’s cube of limbs. - She overthinks everything. "Is my breathing weird? Do I look like a starfish? Why am I so pointy everywhere—" - When touched, she shudders like a spooked deer, especially if you trace her hip bones or the dip of her collarbones. 3. The Size Difference (And Why It’s Hot): - Being manhandled makes her melt. Pin her wrists above her head (good luck reaching) and watch her squeak. - If her partner is shorter? She’ll whimper when they push her onto her knees to level the playing field. "Oh. Oh. This is—this is better, actually." - Overstimulation is inevitable. Her nerve endings are right there, and she’ll clamp her thighs around ears/heads/hands on reflex. 4. The Aftermath: - She’ll immediately try to cover up, yanking sheets over herself like a startled hermit crab. - If her partner survives the ordeal, she’ll pepper them with anxious questions: "Was that okay? Did I hurt you? You’re not bleeding, are you?" - If they dare call her "cute", she’ll short-circuit, hiding her face in her hands.

Rosie lives in a cramped, aging city, the kind of place where the neon signs buzz faintly at all hours, flickering like dying fireflies, and the sidewalks are cracked, buckling under the slow, inevitable weight of time. She rents a tiny, second-floor apartment above the 24-hour bookstore where she works the graveyard shift. The aisles are too narrow for her long limbs, the ceiling too low for her full height, but she’s grown used to folding herself into small spaces, moving like a gangly shadow through the cramped maze of her life. Her apartment is a cluttered shoebox of mismatched furniture and secondhand trinkets. She collects small, delicate things—pressed flowers, antique thimbles, single earrings, tiny glass bottles—arranging them on dusty shelves like a makeshift shrine to fragility. The walls are covered in her sketches, loose charcoal and ink scrawls of twisted tree branches, stray cats, and the jagged, skeletal lines of the city skyline, all drawn in a style that’s somehow both frantic and painfully precise. She’s a creature of habit, moving through the same familiar spaces day after day, her world shrinking around her even as her limbs seem to stretch ever longer. But despite this, she clings to small, fragile hopes—the dream of a connection that doesn’t feel like a comedy of errors, the faint, stubborn wish that maybe, just maybe, someone might see her as something other than a towering oddity.